“Ah.” This was a pet project. When it had eventually borne in upon Anne precisely how much discretionary funding was available to her, as a full adult member of Clan Korval, she had lost no time in setting up a trust to fund a university chair to be filled by scholars who excelled in the teaching of comparative cultures, cultural genetics, or any other of a very short list of diversification studies.
Once she, and more importantly, Mr. dea'Gauss, was satisfied with the terms of the trust, universities galaxywide had been solicited to apply for a grant.
“We have two chairs already in place—at University, of course, and also at Delgado—which is a coup!”
He remembered the excitement generated by the receipt of the application from the University of Delgado, a catalyst school with a stellar reputation in the academic galaxy.
“What have you now?” he asked. “More than one, else there would be no need to sort.”
“Bontemp has applied—a well-established school with a strong cultural diversities component already in place. It seems we'll have them, if they meet the financial test, which I'm certain they will. No, what's interesting is that we have an application from Islington College, which is very small and very . . . Terran. I can't imagine they'll pass the financials, but—the opportunity! We ought to try to accommodate them . . . somehow.”
“Perhaps a co-op?” Daav murmured.
Anne frowned. “Co-op?”
“Indeed. Perhaps three or four worthy but underfunded institutions of higher learning can between them more than adequately support the Gallowglass Scholar? Might they make a joint application, with the understanding that the scholar would travel between schools?”
“That . . . ” She snatched at her screen and made some rapid notes. “We don't want to muddy the waters around the Gallowglass, but that's a good notion you have there, laddie. Let me think about it a bit.”
“Certainly,” he said, absurdly pleased to have been of use. “Remember to consult with Mr. dea'Gauss.”
“You'd best believe it! That young man's a fountain of ideas.”
Since Mr. dea'Gauss was, in fact, a good dozen years Anne's senior, Daav supposed “young man” to be a pleasantry. He therefore smiled and rose, inclining his head slightly.
“As much as I would like to sit here in the sun with you all day long, I fear that duty calls. Is there a commission I might discharge for you in the city?”
“Not a thing, my dear; thank you for asking. Will you be seeing Mr. dea'Gauss today?”
“We have an appointment after midday,” he admitted.
“Fingers crossed he'll have good news for you,” Anne said, with another unusually sharp glance up into his face. “If it happens that the news isn't as good as you'd like, you know you can stay here.”
All of Korval's houses were open to the delm, of course. Still, it warmed him that she offered—a gesture of sisterhood the like of which he was unlikely to receive from his own sister.
“I know,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Thank you.”
Eyla dea'Lorn had provided him with several bits of fabric—a slip of misty green silk and a finger-length of silvered lace. These he set out on the board between himself and Master Moonel, and waited while the artist considered them.
“Tell me about her,” he said, stroking the lace with a delicate, scarred fingertip.
Daav settled himself on the stool and glanced about the shop. No pretty client room, this, but the Master's own workshop, tools hung to hand, calipers, alembics and scales set out on the tables, amid the bits and pieces that would, soon or late, become one or more of the most sought-after pieces of jewelry on Liad.
“As one looks at her, she seems frail,” he said slowly. “Her face is thin, the bones show clearly at her collar, impossibly delicate. I can span her waist with my two hands. Her hair is light brown, shot through with gold, yellow and amber, like a Perthian tapestry. Her eyes—” He leaned forward to touch the bit of foggy silk.
"Her eyes are green, gloriously so; when she is troubled, or very deep in thought, they seem to mist over, like fog shading the ocean.
“When one comes to know her, it is obvious that she is very far from frail. She has strength of purpose enough for the captain of a starship, wit, humor—aye, and a temper. She flies like a Scout and mathematics is her first and truest language.” He raised his head, but Moonel was not looking at him. He was sketching something with a bit of chalk onto a torn sheet of dark paper.
“Naturally, Mistress dea'Lorn did not feel that she could safely entrust the details of her design to me. However, she asked me to say that she awaits your call, Master.”
Moonel did not look up from his sketching, though he was heard to vent a small chuckle.
“It is always a pleasure to speak with Eyla,” he murmured. “Will you be wanting a ring?”
“I think not. She holds two—a Jump pilot's cluster and an old silver puzzle ring. More would overpower her hands.”
“She will wear the cluster, of course,” Moonel murmured, perhaps to himself. “We may echo.” The chalk moved once more, delicately, and the Master at last looked up.
“I will undertake it,” he stated. “The jewels will be delivered to you in good time. Good-day.”
Daav came immediately to his feet and bowed, as novice-to-master.
“Good-day, Master Moonel. I thank you for your favor.”
There was, after all, no good news from Mr. dea'Gauss. Korval's counteroffer, reiterating the life-price of a pilot-scholar and a bonus, as that scholar was the author of the ven'Tura Revisions; plus the life-price of an accountant, which Mizel might put toward the adoption of an adult to replace the nadelm—Korval's counteroffer was spurned with so little discussion that it must seem that Mizel considered it an insult.
“Mizel's qe'andra is not permitted . . . discretion in the negotiation,” Mr. dea'Gauss had murmured. “I have produced another offer, along the lines which your lordship and I had discussed previously. If it is likewise rejected, then we must assume that the desired outcome is that negotiations fail and Pilot Caylon remains as a member of Mizel.”
That chilled the blood, that did. Daav sat very still until his heart resumed its normal rhythm and he felt that he might, with some care, manage a breath.
There was no law or custom that dictated that an offer of lifemating must be accepted. After all, a delm must act for the best good of the clan, and to accept an offer that would cripple the clan . . .
He closed his eyes.
He was a fool. He had depended upon Korval's melant'i to win everything; indeed, he had behaved as if everything he wished to accomplish was already so, as if the laws and custom of Liad were so many inconvenient trivialities. To have high-handedly removed Aelliana from her clanhouse, thereby making her delm his enemy . . . worse than a fool. Yet, what else could he have done? Out of the question to allow her to remain, newly Healed, and vulnerable. He might have—he supposed he might have prevailed upon the Healers to aid them, pled his case at once and—
No. She would not have accepted him; she would not—they would not—have known the extent of their bond, the depth of their love. They must have had that time with each other . . .
“Your lordship?”
He started, reminded that he was not by any means alone. Carefully, he took a breath, and opened his eyes.
“Your pardon, Mr. dea'Gauss.”
The other man took a breath at least as careful, and inclined his head. “We will prevail, your lordship.”
Of course they would. As long as Mizel preferred to play games, there existed the possibility of a win. It was, therefore, imperative that Mizel not be brought to the point of uttering the single syllable that would kill all hope, forever.
No.
“I repose every faith in you, Mr. dea'Gauss,” he murmured, which was true. He rose and bowed. “Thank you for your efforts on Korval's behalf—on my behalf and that of my pilot.”